


The Dragons Have Come

by Litheral, Niongi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beating, Character Death, Death, F/F, F/M, Face Slapping, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, Other, Psychological Torture, Spanking, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Litheral/pseuds/Litheral, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niongi/pseuds/Niongi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lived in the Kingswood,<br/>A Mother Lion and her Cub,<br/>She loved him very much,<br/>But there were other things that lived in the woods.<br/>Evil things: Stags, wolves, you could hear them howling in the night.<br/>The dragons are dreams of old men, the talk of the small folk, talk of fear. The dragons have come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. High in the Nest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [centuriesofsundown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/centuriesofsundown/gifts).



> Headcannon I don't explicitly explain. Viserys was thrown out of Vaes Dothrak instead of killed. Dany loses everything after Meereen even her dragons the leave her. Calling out 'father'.

**-The Eryie-**

Lord Peytr Baelish , King Joffery's Lord Protector of the Vale placed one hand behind his back and forced his silhouette taunt, the fire cracked and a log fell into the bed with a soft thud. The dark wood shutters engraved with the falcon, its wingtips tightly closed covered the window, and they stared down leering over anyone in the room with their yellow glass eyes. A servant was expected but dared not come to Little Finger while he saw to his daughter.

“Your father wants you bastard. Ge’move on.” Said a guard. In those moments Alyane felt her name Stone weigh her down. Her significance relied on Lord Baelish’s kindness but Sansa floated in the back of her mind indignant. She was a Stark of Winterfell, no bastard, but a true highborn daughter though it had been a long time since anyone had called her such. She couldn't let it show. It was better than the King Joffery the Blackthroat who would make her his whore, a live doll to fuck and beat.

Bitterness was a new taste in her throat and she had no hideaway to sweeten her tongue again. No lemon baths now. _Porcelain child, Ivory woman, Stark steel to Stone, Alyane Stone. No one. Nothing._ Three years hiding in the Vale and three years blackening her mother's gift of Tully red hair. Three of learning to play the game, the game of thrones and still her adoptive father taught her he was the better player.

Alayne shook the bottom part of the skirt of imaginary dirt, a nervous habit. Something Sansa would never do. She would wear the blood of Winterfell like a shroud. She fought to control herself but the memory of his last kiss flickered in her mind like eels slipping against each other in the marketplace waiting to be bought, and sold into cooking pots. Alayne steels her resolve but prays when she shakes her skirts again that her father isn't hungry to educate her.

He isn't facing her when she enters. A calculated effort she understands now to try and unnerve her, to create an opportunity for his lesson. Alayne doesn't want a Maester lesson of lips, and her mother’s name on his lips but she chooses caution over fear.

"Father?" She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from adding more; choosing to stand opposite from him. He doesn’t turn or look away from the map he has draped over the table.

She feels the wind push in from the landing cool and dry, if she squints it might look like snow and trees. It might look like home. When father turns to look at her now she puts a small smile on her face _._

_‘Like a mirror I will let him see what he wishes. Where is your caution Alayne?’_ She thinks and dismisses her own thoughts, she feels: ambitious, and playful with him.

"I have unfortunate tiding, sweetling." He says. Alayne can't tell if he is gleeful. Her confidence shoots out of her like a crooked arrow, making her queasy. "I've discovered plans that I'm afraid would upset you." He pauses coming close and taking her hand. He rubs each digit, looking at her nails. His closeness pushes her into hyper awareness of his fingertips as he squeezes her wrist tightly. Tyrion’s broken face flashed in her mind, ‘ _I vow, I shall not savage you.’_

"Plans father?" She hears her voice and cringes at its hollowed steadiness.

"Yes, I'm afraid young Jon has been given advice. Advice that would send you into the hands of old captors." He pressed his nail down into her wrist, leaving half-moons on her veins.

Surely her cousin wouldn't. Sweet Robin was kind, they were betrothed. He’d marry his cousin to keep her safe.

_‘I love you Sansa. You are lovely our babies will be pretty. You can rule the Vale, I’ll be your Lord and then we’ll marry our babies to people we like.’ Alayne outside of the room, always Sansa as they laid next to each other and she petted her little cousins shaking, sweating form._

Little Robin's head guard would sell her, the Lord wanted his son the Young Hawk to rule the Eyrie. Her father's control over the Eyrie has been slipping since Aunt Lysa went missing. Her voice shrills suddenly in her mind _"I saw what you did. You led him on didn't you? I saw you kiss him!"_ And the sound of the air as she fell down and down the moon door.

Petyr grips her chin hard and rubs his knuckle on her jaw. How long had he been talking? Did he ask her a question? She flicks her eyes up to him, he gives his side smirk. Grabbing onto her shoulders he pulls her closer chest to chest crushing her and brushes her hair back he whispers into her ear.

"He would sell you to the Targaryen Queen.” Daenarys Targaryen had come and taken King’s landing after several months siege, no other word of her victory but that King Joffery was safe in Casterly Rock with the Queen Dowager. His breath was hot on her ear, she could feel his manhood on her thigh as he gripped her shoulders with his sharp fingers, his body was warm but she still shivered.

"What does the Targaryen Queen want with me father?" It was the wrong thing to say because Peytr's thumbs dug into her shoulders bruising them as he hissed into her hair with his breath.

“She doesn’t know you are alive, but if you were given up in the name of the Vale. She would forgive the Vale and all the lords therein. No executions, no fire and blood. You’ll find no safety with King Joffery, although marrying you to young Jon, may be a better choice." He waits watching her. Marry Sansa to her cousin? Of course, by now little Robin would have given up her secret to his councilors. They would sell her. Jon was eleven now but with no mother and her in hiding little Jon was ignorant of the hurt he did. A secret she knows her father did not approve of her sharing.

Sometimes she sees Petyr Baelish’s stone disapproval shake into irritation spiced, in lightening anger which makes her mind tumble in panic. She wants so desperately to see his eyes grey. Grey and with a small smile in them just for her, but as hard as she tries, Alayne’s father cannot put her at ease the way Sansa’s father Lord Stark's had.

“My Lord? His Lordship’s councilors ask you to come, milord.” The guard called in, he didn’t come in so he knows she is in here.

“Of course, at once.” Petyr answers. “You may go.” When he moves away from her in deliberate slowness as though the pupil has deeply offended the teacher with their lack self-discipline.

"Obey your father sweetling." He says.

“By your will, father.” An automatic curtsy and a small voice. Just like with Joffery, King Joffery the Blackthroat. He had barely survived his poisoning, at his wedding feast, he had been sick for months, gone to Casterly Rock for his recovery. A full year before he was well now it was whispered he was uglier than his kinslaying Uncle Tyrion.

"I have a different way. I have found a way to send you home." Lord Baelish said. She could feel herself brighten but tempered and shook it down to her belly. He said many things that were true but not the truth she knew now. She looked into his forehead feeling her courtesy armor clang around like a squire’s first shield, shaking with effort. "By your will, Lord father."

"I will be taking you to the Highgarden. Dearest, where you will marry Willas. There we shall reveal your claim and the roses shall take Winterfell in your name."

Highgarden to marry sweet Willas. With the puppies and horses and all the flowers. Sweet cousins like Margaery. Her good sister. She need never be alone with Peytr who sometimes called her Cat, who pushed her Aunt out the moon door, saved her from her and Blackthroat. Who hid her but wants? 

"But we must be careful Alyane. The horses are already waiting to take us tonight. They will take us to a ship which will sail to Highgarden. As soon as it is dark we shall away to make you a rose bride." He held his hand out and she took it, leaned up and kissed his cheek because a grateful daughter would.

Baelish smirked and put her lips to his. His lips were dry and thin, no eels, no wine and his fingertips she was sure would leave bruises on her bottom. This is what he wants she thought.

She hoped he would be brief but when his tongue touches her open mouth she could feel that bitterness pinch her throat and flood her stomach with bile. Sansa moved her palms up on his chest and gently pushed him back from her.

"Father we should take care.” _Willas is waiting for me_ she added silently. Willas, Highgarden and Winterfell.

“Come.”

\----

The guards all leaned over at their posts when they dropped to the great baskets out of nest. _Poisoned_ she thought. But a loud snore from one who always gave her sweet smiles, assures her, drugged.

She would probably never see her cousin again As the Lady of Highgarden she'd write him he was some of the last of her kin. The wind pulled her darkened hair around her in a tangle, the smell of the stone and damp.

She hardly felt the horse ride, or the hours, the days to the ship but the closer the smell of the ocean came upon them the more she worried for the length of the trip.

Lord Baelish was insistent, but a few hours of sleep and full light came upon them and Baelish was on deck speaking to a man he seemed to know. She would make plans with the roses and pull the mockingbird out of garden.

She stayed in cabin looking out the small window letting the saltwater drain some of the poison out and dreaming again at last. She imagined her beautiful children who would all be named for the family she'd lost. Thinking of their young children and only the tales she could tell them stabbed her into her last flesh part of her heart. Stabbed until that too was ice and stone. She'd warn them of winter and they would withstand them all.


	2. Little Men, Big Problems

-The Red Keep-

The white gauze curtains blew gently into the room with the scent of the sea curling into them. The red stone was cast the color of blood as it was being lit by so few candles. A servant boy dozed in the corner, not realizing that many could see him there.

"Light some candles boy!" barked Jon Connington. The boy jerked awake and gave a wild bow to no one's direction in particular rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "We can barely see our faces. Their graces words may have blood in it but we want some fire!"

"Must you shout so late? Child, fetch the candles." Lord Varys patted the boy on the shoulder and urged him out of the room with a bare brush of a sleeve. A tiny bird indeed. "My dear Lord Hand, you no longer dwell among the Dothraki horde, therefore do please find some manners that are appropriate for your recent appointment."

"Gods be good Varys giving a tongue lashing at this late hour?" Sniped Tyrion as he plopped into a chair pouring a glass of wine. "Why under the Cunt of the moon are we up so late?" The table could barely be seen with the stacks of scrolls and parchments scattered about. Marriage offers for the Prince Viserys, for the Prince Rhaegar. Questions: Will the His Grace, King Aegon take another wife? Will the Queen Daenarys receive court? And then many more notes and ravens messages from various Lords sending their fealty through paper instead of a bended knee in front of the Iron Throne.

"Please tell me this isn't some late night convening for tiny Lords and their tiny problems. Surely His Grace doesn't want these matters seen to at this time of night?" Tyrion took a deep draught of his wine and looked over at the other councilors with a smirk. "For I do know where our King is, he is where he always is when the moon is full and the air is hot well into the night. He's with Their Graces drinking, fucking and eating the night away solely in their arms. I do of course mean only _Her_ Graces arms. I'm sure His grace, Prince Viserys watches and slumbers peacefully, alone."

Varys rolled his eyes with a huff, while Jon grinned like a hungry wildcat. The Maester was not present. The Targaryens with their dragons had been in the capital for some three months, and still not all was settled.

"I have a decision from His Grace of, as you say, the tiny Lords and their tiny problems. No noble, prince, or lord of the realm may swear their fealty threw pen or raven. They must come themselves, kneel in front of the Iron Throne with their colors and sigil on their back and swear their houses, words, and honor to House Targaryen." said Varys watching the servant boy light candles on the table, and on all the shelves. The room brightened considerable and the boy looked at Varys for a moment, and then rushed to pin the curtains down and away from the flame.

The servant boy paused, Lantean, if he remembered the boys name, looking up briefly at Varys went red in the face bowed and scampered into the darkened hall of the servants quarters.

"Their graces don't ask for much. All of them Lordies did it before, and with the dragons well they better run in front of the King to dodge the fire." said Jon chuckling into his cup. He had of course not expected to be summoned so he was a bit into his cups and not all together helpful, one of the rare occasions that the mighty Lord Connington gave himself to drink. He plucked a handful of pitted cherries and dropped them in the little plate in front of him watching them roll around.

"But to the point-"

"Oh yes lets hear it!" Tyrion interrupted. Varys narrowed his eyes and took a sip of water.

"As to the reason I've convened us, it is a great matter to the King. Joffery is in Castely Rock, and still proclaims himself King. While here in Kingslanding we have famine, rebellion, and broken walls. We have no Master of the Coin. With Jon Connington as Hand, I still a spider, and you dear Tyrion as Lord Steward, and Master of the Red Keep our hands are quite full. So His Grace has asked me who was the Master of the Coin before-"

"Don't say that rats name, Varys don't." Tyrion spat, "Is that little conniving piece of shit coin jinglier still alive? Please tell me he is in a black cell and maimed."

"Precisely the problem. Petyr Baelish still lives, outside of our custody, and as far as I know un-maimed. Also, His Grace wants a new Master of the Coin, preferably one who has had the appointment before and not a Lannister. If we his fine councilors can manage such a small task." A snort drew their eyes to Loras who until that moment had been sulkily nibbling on strawberries. It was whispered that he was the latest conquest of His Grace, and as soon as a land was conquered, it was forgotten. "Something to add Ser Loras?"

"I am the Lord Commander, yet I'm not included in this conversation?" said Loras.

"No indeed. Ser Loras you are managing the guard, but with no ill intent good Ser, you are not the Lord Commander His Grace never appointed you as such." Tyrion said.

Perhaps it could have been said less harshly if a silent exchange of eyes from Tyrion to Jon, and both of them back to Varys once again.

"Ser Barrister is His Graces personal guard so he cannot resume that post of Lord Commander. And my dear, Ser Loras Unless His Grace appoints you in ceremony, and speaks to this council we cannot consider you as such. You are young Ser. Too young to be master of King's Guard, and white cloak, though not incapable in my opinion."

"So we need a Lord Commander, Master of Coin, and anything else?" Said Tyrion. Tyrion watched Varys with a tired eyes endless days of appointments, executions and purging of the enemies of House Targaryen, and himself. Cersei a prisoner, and any other Lannister until he could verify who they were. Cunt Cersei a war spoil for His Grace, but Jaime was with King Joffery in Casterly Rock. Tommen safe but a prisoner safely locked away in a Prince's rooms with the Red Guard.

"We also need a new Master of Laws, and A Master of Ships. His Grace is not in favor of the current appointments. Lord Mace Tyrell may be able to stay on as Master of Ships, but he finds Randyll Tarly to be too surly and despicable in his relationship with his first son, who is now sworn to the black, Samwell Tarly." Said Varys. He watched the candlelight for a moment, and was deeply comforted in the knowledge that all the Targaryens slept in the Red Keep safe, whole, and sound. The Crown Prince Rhaegar cuddling with his dolls made by his Dothraki slaves, Little Horses and Dragons that surrounded him in his sleep. He blinked and looked up at Tyrion, nodding slightly.

"His Grace is meaningful in his appointments, but is this just a lure to get Baelish here? Or is it going to be a pardon—Glad you could join us Mormont, too busy to be bothered?" Said Tyrion exasperated.

"This bear was licking honey off your nieces nether parts." he grinned and sat next to Tyrion patting him on the shoulder. Ah yes and his niece was delivered from Dorne to Queen a Daenerys as a gift, in turn she gave her to Jorah Mormont once again master and Lord of the Bear Isles.

"And the question of Dorne is also on the table." Said Loras. "They want the promise kept between Prince Viserys and Arianne Martell, but as the King is the son of a Martell it makes little sense in the alliance for the crown."

"Are you acting as a councilor or do you wish your dear Margery to marry again?" said Tyrion. He watched Loras face as it relaxed into a smirk. The danger was that only Connington knew the infatuation or could it be called love that the King had for his Queen Aunt and Uncle. 

"Councilor, even a blind man could see that a match between Targaryen and Martell is pointless. She should be married perhaps to yourself Tyrion, you are a man are you not?"

Fucking Loras him and his sister just wanted to shove a barrel of strawberries down his throat for all his picking at them. He watched Loras unsmiling, and unsettling the young Knight. He was the son of the old Lion indeed, and Lannisters don't act like fools. Especially to the one fucking the king. Would the King choose his lovers over the will of the council? Of himself?

"Indeed but His Grace will decide whom I wed, as I did forswore my marriage to his crown. Just as Mormont did, so I will." said Tyrion.

"Their Graces will have their way in this. I wouldn't argue over it, or mention that Martells for now. The appointments must be seen to, as well as the Wardens of the Realm." Said Jorah calling over his shoulder in Dothraki, "Tkalounah Khal Keshkashar? Khalessei? Keshkashar-to?"

"Khal, Khalessi, and little brother of Khal are all sleeping, Bear." The little mother called back. She came into the room and was in contrast to the silk and painted walls as she was still in her Dothraki leathers and furs. Dark olive skin, even darker eyes and hair, she was the King's Little Mother, his Dothraki mother. She understood Westeros because of Tyrion and was one ally he could count on. Even if the King's had a thousand lovers, he always considered the little mother's words before theirs.

The frightening part was that Little Mother looked calm and sweet, and her man was even stiller and quiet. She had single handedly slaughtered all of Aegon's bastards all fifty-one of them including her own daughter's son freshly born.

 _"A King of Westeros does not need horses babies, whores babies, you are this King first, Khal after. You are not weak my Khal, this pain take it with you like a stone. A whet stone. Dragons do not fuck horses, they do not lounge in the grass. They do not take cities for the Khalessar, they go home. They find the other Dragons."_ Aegon clutching the body of his daughter looked up at his little mother sobbing, and reaching out to all of his children's bloodied bodies in front of him.

 _'Keshkashar, even my daughter your Dothraki wife does not weep as you do. She watches and knows you will be a King of the Iron Throne. She does not cry. You are a dragon. You were supposed to eat your women's babies when they are born.'_ Tyrion shuddered in his tent and did not dare come out to see Aegon's pain. If His Grace ever knew, that he had told the Little mother that very yesterday.

_"Gods be good fifty children-" Tyrion covered his mouth looking at the eldest child already seven years old. He must have fathered that child at twelve or thirteen._

_"Soon fifty-one, my daughter will have a baby for him soon." said little mother smiling._

_"You shouldn't smile, every one of these sons could kill their father's chances of ever returning home. These make him weak, the gods be good-What to do with all of these children. They are all bastards, he didn't marry those women in the eyes of Westeros they are all Horse-brides, little mother. Women of spoils, conquest. Except for your daughter, she's the only one he—gods something must be done with all of children. The little mother frowned and looked over the babies tent._

Tyrion sometimes woke in a cold sweat hearing the women sob as the Khal was away and the Little Mother and her man beat, strangled and cut the throat of every child in the Khals—the King's tent.

"All the Targaryens sleep, as their councilors ramble. Varys you’re the master of whispers you find little finger." said Tyrion rising from the table. "I'm going to bed." He left the council hall, and shivered as he passed a Targaryen banner, they could never know.

Tyrion flopped into his bed with a groan rubbing his hands against the cool sheets. The wife that never wanted him, was she somewhere in the dungeons? They were combing through every inch, but the dungeons were vast and King Blackthroat Joffery had put many people in there. Gods be good he hoped not. He imagined her under a lemon tree sewing quietly and occasionally looking up at the birds that bathed in the waterbath. As Tyrion fell asleep he could've sworn he smelled lemon, sunshine and her hair even in the dead of night.


End file.
